


singing, each to each

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry’d said something to that effect on his birthday. He’d apologized again for scaring Zayn that morning, but he’d truly forgotten he needed to resurface. There was something about being down there, surrounded by water, that made him feel safe, made him feel at home. Freedom from pressure, freedom from scrutiny. He’d just wanted a place that made him feel like home.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d been quick to assure Zayn, at what must have been the pained look on his face, that Zayn never made him feel bad that way. That if Harry couldn’t have the water all the time, at least he had Zayn all the time, and that was enough.</i>
</p><p> <br/>[Or Harry’s a fish out of water. More literally than he realizes.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	singing, each to each

**Author's Note:**

> what's up, y'all ever see the thirteenth year?
> 
> here's a mermaid au for my anonymous pal on the internet.
> 
> title from prufrock u know, thanks jessi.

 

It's typical of Harry to be late, someone always wants something from him and he's yet to learn to say no. Harry’s got this dazed way about him sometimes, like he goes through life so perpetually baffled by other people’s attention that he feels he’s got to answer to it, to give his own in return. He’s a charming bastard, is the thing he appears to fail to understand, and he gets them all under his spell, opens his mouth and a siren song puts them all at his feet.

Zayn throws his bag down on the bleacher before flumping down beside it. He kicks his feet up and lights a cigarette, figuring the pool’s too big a space for one little old light to set off any smoke alarms. Nobody bloody goes swimming in the middle of winter except Harry anyway, even if it is an indoor pool.

Only for Harry would Zayn bike to school this early, and yet only Harry would keep him waiting. It’s not so much the getting up early part as it is the sitting here alone like a tit part that he minds the most. This time is the time for just the two of them, where Zayn doesn’t have to share him with anyone else. He’s not above admitting he’s selfish about it.

Zayn ashes his cigarette onto the cement at his feet and looks at the pool. It’s a bit serene, looks like it might be nice to dip into, but other than that, like. It’s just water. He’s honestly not sure why Harry likes it all that much, why he’s here every day, why he insists on bringing Zayn when Zayn wants nothing to do with the water.

He spots something in the middle of the pool, resting on top of the school’s logo painted at the bottom. It’s a bit tan, a bit gangly. It looks like --

The cigarette drops from Zayn’s hand as he stomps down the bleachers, nearly tripping and braining himself on the last one in his hurry to throw himself into the pool.

Admittedly, he doesn’t think his plan all the way through. The second he thinks Harry’s in trouble, he just goes for him, at the instance of his own heart. He hits the water hard and heavy, his winter clothes soaking up and weighing him down as he splashes around, attempting to maneuver himself in Harry’s general direction.

It’s not long before he loses his buoyancy altogether and ends up sinking under the surface, choking on chlorine. Fitting, really, he always sort of knew he’d die doing some sort of dumbass thing for Harry Styles.

He feels tugged, suddenly, a strong arm wrapping around his chest and hauling him up. He breaks through to the surface and takes in desperate gulps, letting himself go limp in Harry’s arms, letting Harry do all the work to tug him over to the ladder, serves him right.

Zayn scrambles up the ladder and hits the ground hard, his fingers rubbing the solid cement gratefully until he rolls heavily onto his back. He’s breathless and coughing, not exactly relishing the severe burn in his throat.

“You can't swim, you massive idiot,” Harry says after he flops down beside him.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know that, don't I. What was I supposed to do, let you drown?” Zayn snaps.

He didn’t even have time to entertain the thought before he was off and running for the pool, but. Something could have happened. He could have lost Harry in just a moment’s time, to the water, and not got him back. He’s never been so scared in his life.

“I wasn't drowning.”

“It looked like you were drowning, down there as long as I’ve been in here, and that was like five minutes, Harry.” Zayn pulls in another ragged breath, the sound of it just as irritated as the sound of Zayn’s voice. Of all the moments, of all the reasons Harry’d be reckless.

“I,” he starts, cutting himself off to bite his lip. “I dunno, I think I just. Sort of lost track of time?”

Zayn looks over at him, unimpressed. “Underwater.”

“Yeah. I was fine, honestly,” Harry says earnestly enough that Zayn believes him.

His curls form a frame of wet tendrils around his face. Harry keeps swearing he’s going to cut it all off, it’ll be easier to fit under his swim cap. That’ll send the girls tittering for sure, all up in arms because Harry Styles has cut his trademark hair. And Liam, too. Liam’ll be quite upset.

Zayn cuts his eyes away from Harry’s face, to anywhere but Harry’s face, until he realizes exactly how much of Harry’s skin is on display.

“You were skinny dipping in the school’s public pool at 7 am in the morning?” Zayn says, keeping his eyes trained firmly on the ceiling now that he’s noticed it. It’s nothing he’s not seen before, Harry’s _Harry_ and perpetually shameless, but there’s something about seeing it all out there that makes Zayn want it more, so the last thing he’s gonna do is have a look.

“It’s my birthday,” Harry moans. “And clothing is a trap. Water is the only true freedom we have.”

Zayn supposes Harry meant that as a throwaway statement, that he really doesn’t feel suffocated by anything except for when he’s in the water. Only Harry’s said stuff like that before, tried to describe it to Zayn whenever Zayn asks him what’s so bloody great about the water that he’s gotta be in it all the damn time.

“Yeah, all right. Happy birthday,” Zayn says and slaps Harry’s bare chest. Harry twitches, but looks pleased. “Twat.”

\--

They get absolutely pissed even though it’s a Wednesday night, Louis’d picked them all up in his car after he got off his shift at the charity shop, and they’d all gone in together on some whiskey and cheap beer and mixed alcohol all night even though the internet says you shouldn’t.

Both Zayn and Harry agree to skip the pool the next morning.

“Mate, I think I’m dying,” Harry says, dramatically, stumbling because out of water he’s got two left feet and not a clue how to use them. He tries to play it off, draping half his body over Zayn’s back and clutching onto him like a limpet. A tall, strong limpet with his arms wrapped around Zayn’s waist, his hands close enough to make Zayn lose his train of thought with a single touch. But he doesn’t touch.

“You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do,” Zayn answers, pleased anytime someone sets him up to quote Ferris Bueller. Although, honestly, he figures Harry’s more the Ferris anyway, and Zayn’s the Cameron that’s got everyone wondering why it is someone like _Harry Styles_ is hanging out with him.

He’s also a bit tickled Harry’s got a bad hangover, serves him right for all those times he wouldn’t take a sip when all of them were underage, getting trashed in his mum’s basement. Like… even Liam participated.

“Yes, I can, I can think of many things that are good to do. Like sleeping. Or sleeping. Or. Swimming.”

Zayn looks at him. He does seem a little peaky, so pale he’s almost green with it. Zayn puts a hand to his forehead, for all it’s worth, which is nothing, because Harry’s clammy but he doesn’t feel feverish.

It must be the stress finally getting to him, cracking that pristine veneer of self-confidence Harry’s always carrying around him. Whether it’s the fact that unis are fighting over him to get him on their team or the gentle nudges toward Olympic trials for 2016 or the constant drug testing because nobody normal should be able to do the things Harry does in water.

Harry bears it all with a remarkably blasé attitude, but Zayn knows better, knows how tired Harry looks with his guard down. It looks something like this.

“M’thirsty,” Harry whines until Zayn drags him across the hall to the drinking fountain and waits.

He leans up against the wall next to him, his arms folded, his eyes looking anywhere but at the people who walk by him frowning. None of them stop to say hello to Harry, not like they’d normally do, which is a bit off.

He’s used to getting looks, anyway. For whatever bullshit transfer reason from Bradford to this backwards bloody coastal town, he’s stuck in Harry and Liam’s year and not graduated like Louis. They all think it’s ‘cause he’s failed, which is rich, considering how many A Levels he’s got under his belt. Not that he’d tell them.

But then Zayn follows their eyes and sees that every single one of them is focused on Harry, who’s hunched over the water fountain, sucking in water like it’s oxygen. Gulp after gulp goes down his throat, and Zayn has to push himself away from other reasons why Harry would swallow, things you shouldn’t think about your best mate. It’s not hard, though, because there’s just something so off about Harry’s intense focus.

At some point, he’s got to breathe, yeah? But Harry looks like he’s in it for the long haul.

Zayn puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, startling him enough that he jolts and takes some of the water up the nose. He sputters and looks up at Zayn, betrayal written across his features.

“You could get water poisoning, mate,” Zayn explains.

Harry snorts in hard and wipes his face with his jacket sleeve. He’s truly disgusting sometimes, and it’s those moments when Zayn can’t help but wonder why it is everyone’s always half in love with Harry. Until he remembers he is too, and he’s got to hold himself accountable for being a big, bloody hypocrite.

“That’s not a real thing,” Harry says confidently, before his resolve falters. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it’s like an imbalance of electrolytes,” Zayn answers. “Or something like that.”

Harry looks impressed. “You know so much about things.”

“And you still look drunk.” Zayn squints at him. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No, it hurt.”

Zayn’s stomach flips and his attention snaps sharply, his mind racing. Harry’s hurt, Harry got hurt, did someone hurt Harry, I’m gonna hurt anyone who hurts Harry.

Harry peels back his jacket to display his arm, dry and irritated. “Eczema’s flaring up real bad, I think,” he mumbles, giving his wrist a good scratch.

“You’re gonna make yourself bleed.” Zayn pulls his hand back at the wrist and keeps hold of it for good measure. He can’t trust Harry to look after himself sometimes, which Zayn would be irritated about if he weren’t so happy to do it.

“S’gross,” Harry moans. “I don’t remember it looking this bad.”

“You using some of your sister’s glitter moisturizer again?”

Harry says nothing, which mean he’s saying yes.

“What did we decide about that?”

“Don’t put glitter moisturizer on the eczema,” Harry answers glumly.

When Zayn lets go of Harry’s wrist, there’s glitter on his own hand. He picks at the flake of it, practically grossed out by it, only it doesn’t look like a flake, it looks like a nearly perfect round disc, opaque and shining.

“Almost. Doesn’t look like skin.” He studies it for a moment more before he swipes his hand across his pants to rid his hands of the shit.

“What?” Harry starts to say before they get snapped at by the professor at the door by the fountain.

“Malik, Styles, get to class,” she demands and they scurry off. “Horan, you too.”

Zayn looks back and sees him, Niall Horan, the Irish one, sticks out just as much as Zayn does in a place like this, crouched in the middle of the hallway by the fountain, looking down at his palm with something like wonder. Or maybe fear. Or maybe suspicion.

Zayn tilts his head to try to get a better look at Niall’s palm before Harry shoves him through the door. His palm glitters.

\--

 _Bad asthma day,_ the text says, its chime echoing all around. And it’s followed by a frown emoji, so Zayn really knows something’s up, because Harry swore off all emoji use six months ago when he decided the world would be a better place if they just spoke with their _words_.

He didn’t like it too much when Zayn reminded him that many languages, including hieroglyphics, started with pictures, not words, and that time was a flat circle, and that everything that once was will be again, and shit like that.

He thought Harry’d like that bullshit reasoning. But it actually just made him grumpy.

Zayn knows he should go see him, though he knows Harry’s not much up to visitors when he’s having difficulty breathing. Zayn’s tried to explain -- Harry doesn’t always have to _talk_ , they can just be there, together, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

He’s surprised Harry swims as well as he does, what with all the weird breathing he’s got to do to get all those different strokes down. But Harry’s always found the water easy to navigate. Apparently now it’s to the point where he forgets he needs to breathe at all, if the other day is any indication.

Zayn texts his condolences back and shuffles out of the pool toward the library so he can find a corner no one will ever visit and sleep until it’s time for class.

School without Harry is… well, it’s awful. He sees Liam a bit, but he and Liam don’t have the same schedule, and he’s off home after lunch anyway. Zayn doesn’t even realize how much of his day he plans around Harry until he’s not there.

He’s too busy to notice Niall sits next to him at lunch until he’s already there and staring at Zayn with the weirdest damn look on his face. Zayn can only imagine how wistful he must have been looking, lost in that sort of _I miss Harry_ daze that’s bound to warrant a weird damn look from anyone, let alone Niall Horan.

“How’s, um, how’s Harry?” Niall asks.

“You know Harry?”

“Everybody knows Harry.”

Zayn shrugs, that’s fair enough. He’s everybody’s favorite swim captain. “He’s poorly, he’s not here today.”

Niall hums and nods like that’s interesting information. It’s not so much interesting as it is life-ruining, as far as Zayn’s concerned, but Niall’s not the first one to ask after him today anyway. He does seem to be the only one who’s not bothered that it’s Zayn he has to talk to about it, though. “How’s his feet?”

“Um. Good,” Zayn answers slowly. Harry hadn’t said anything about his feet. “Still attached, I believe.”

Niall nods firmly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, that is the preference. As far as… feet are concerned,” Zayn says, squinting at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to see how he was. He wasn’t in literature this morning, so I just – ” Niall waves a hand and shrugs.

“Wanted to see how he was.”

“Yeah. Bye, Zayn,” he says, rising from his seat. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Okay,” Zayn says to Niall’s back as he goes, even though he’s not exactly sure what _this_ was. He pulls out his phone.

 _Niall Horan wants to know how your feet are_.

He gets a text back from Harry half an hour later that only says, _Funny you should mention_.

\--

Zayn’s a little wary that his texted instructions were to join Harry in his bathroom, when the last time Harry asked him over to do, it was to check a spot he was worried was chlamydia or something, odd considering he was a fourteen year old virgin at the time. But then again, Harry’s always been a little touchy about public restrooms.

Harry’s a bit big for his bath tub at this point in his growth spurt, but he’s curled in it and looking miserable. He’s got his hands covering his bits, and his chest is as red as his face, like he’s flushed with embarrassment over Zayn seeing him so exposed.

In reality, it’s more of the fin that’s got Zayn a bit gob smacked. The translucent, nearly glittering fin sitting right where his feet should be, shining green scales working their way up to Harry’s knees like he’s wrapped himself in cling wrap. Only it looks impossibly fused to his skin, like, Harry’s feet are proper _gone_ and his legs are barely visible beneath it.

“What the fuck. Oh. What the _fuck_ , shitting fuck, Harry. What the fuck.”

“Yeah,” Harry says lamely.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Harry’s face goes sour. “Well, I’m certainly not joking, Zayn. If this were all some sort of elaborate prank, I’d have probably picked a more comfortable position to sit myself in for over an hour.”

“You’re – you’ve – ”

“I’ve a tail, yes. I’d noticed.”

Zayn can’t believe it. “I can’t believe it.”

“If you need a minute, I understand. I already spent the first half hour crying,” Harry says frankly. “Now I think I’m in shock.”

“Shock, yeah,” Zayn mutters, his eyes glued on the start of Harry’s tail, how the scaly cling wrap seems to slowly crawl up his legs like it’s threatening to take his whole person over. He looks a bit ridiculous with his legs pressed together and his hands pressed tight like he’s trying to stave off a wee.

Zayn doesn’t know what to ask first, so he asks, “How’d you get your phone?”

“Through a series of embarrassingly desperate maneuvers, hinging on my long neck loofah, which you laughed at me about, you remember that, you said getting a loofah with a handle this long was being lazy. Look who’s laughing now.”

Harry grins, but it’s not exactly happy. He looks exhausted, crumpled into this bathtub. Zayn’s not going to say he looks like a fish out of water, but --

Harry’d said something to that effect on his birthday. He’d apologized again for scaring Zayn that morning, but he’d truly forgotten he needed to resurface. There was something about being down there, surrounded by water, that made him feel safe, made him feel at home. Freedom from pressure, freedom from scrutiny. He’d just wanted a place that made him feel like home.

He’d been quick to assure Zayn, at what must have been the pained look on his face, that Zayn never made him feel bad that way. That if Harry couldn’t have the water all the time, at least he had Zayn all the time, and that was enough.

Zayn’s cheeks had pinked and he’d just written it off as drunk rambling. He hadn’t even really remembered Harry said it until just now.

He runs his fingers lightly over the scales. These ones are smooth, unlike the flaky ones he’d seen on Harry’s wrists yesterday. He’s sort of addicted to the feel of them against the pads of his fingers, slick and inhuman and utterly fascinating.

Harry groans.

Zayn jerks his hand back. He should have asked. “Sorry, did that hurt?”

“Not exactly,” Harry grunts. His face is beet red and he’s staring up at the spackled ceiling like maybe he’s going to provide him all of the answers he needs in the world. “Just really sensitive right there.”

“Sorry,” Zayn mutters again, reassessing. More like a moan than he was a groan and Harry’s flushed, and in literally any other situation in the world, Zayn would have loved to see Harry like this at his hands, would have loved to be the person Harry makes that noise for. Now it feels very seriously wrong.

“Could you please hand me a towel?”

He presses the towel Zayn hands him over what’s left of his exposed skin quickly. Zayn tries not to gape at the scales as they grow their way up to claim him. They’re gorgeous, Harry’s gorgeous, and all Zayn wants to do is tell him.

“Zayn, I can’t stay here. I think – god, I think I need water.” Harry covers his face with his hands and says, muffled, “This is seriously fucked up.”

Zayn hums, but he isn’t sure he could agree. In some weird way, it all sort of makes sense. Like puzzle pieces clicking into place, the full picture becoming visible for the first time. Harry isn’t meant for land, he’s meant for the freedom he finds in water.

“I haven’t got a car. What’m I supposed to do, drape you over my bike?”

The solution occurs to them both at the same time.

“Don’t,” Harry pleads, pained. “Oh, Zayn, please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says. The line’s already ringing.

\--

The first thing Louis asks when he arrives is, “Where’s your dick gone?”

Harry slaps a hand to his forehead.

“I really don’t think we’re focusing on the most important issue at hand,” Liam deadpans. They’d come over together. Wherever there was a Louis, a Liam would surely follow.

“Yeah? What’s that, Liam, do remind me.”

“Harry’s gone and turned into a fish!” Liam thunders incredulously.

Zayn shushes him, wide-eyed and terrified Harry’s mum’ll burst in at any moment.

“It’s not going to keep going, is it?” Harry says, like he’s panicked for the first time. “I don’t want to turn into a fish.”

“Dunno, mate, seems a bit stalled at your waist,” Zayn answers, resisting the urge to run his fingers over the scales that have taken over Harry’s waist.

The executive decision is made to wrap Harry in his own duvet because it’s not like any of his joggers are going to fit and haul him out of the house, with the hope that they don’t get caught.

Liam and Louis bicker over logistics at the door to the bathroom as Zayn leans in close to speak quietly, stroking at Harry’s hair. “M’gonna have to touch your, y’know, scales again. To get you out. Is that okay?”

Harry melts under his touch and breathes, “God, if I weren’t actively turning into some sort of freakish sea creature, all I’d want you to do is touch my scales again.”

Zayn pauses. “What?”

“Sorry. Shock. I’m in. Shock,” Harry says, his eyes wide now that he realizes what he’s said. “And apparently incapable of lying.”

“Fuck,” Zayn whispers as Louis gently nudges him aside. He doesn’t even get the opportunity to clarify because they’ve got shit to do, because Harry’s going to need a bigger bathtub.

They splash over way too much water trying to get Harry out of the thing far enough that Zayn can reach behind him to pull the plug to drain it. Zayn insists on being the one to handle Harry’s tail side on his own as they haul him out of the tub and onto the floor to roll him in the duvet. Harry’s eyes are scrunched the whole time, like he’s in pain, and Zayn tries to be business-like about it all.

It says a lot about who they are that Harry’s mum catches them just as they’re shuffling slowly past the kitchen. She looks at them, holding a burrito’d Harry between the three of them like they’re pallbearers or something, and she just sighs and turns away, saying, “Dinner’s at six.”

“Don’t think I’ll be home for dinner,” Harry shouts after her as they tote him out the door.

\--

“Are we going to the pool?” Liam asks.

Zayn shakes his head and shifts Harry a little until his tail’s at one end of the car and his head’s in Zayn’s lap. He looks less cramped this way, but nothing seems to make him any more comfortable. And Zayn doesn’t want to risk touching him with Liam and Louis in the car, not when he knows Harry wants him to, not when he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop.

“Don’t think the school’s the best place for him.”

“We’re going to the marina,” Louis says, “we’ll dump him in the ocean.”

“Cheers, Louis,” Harry rumbles weakly.

“Just looking out for you, Haz.”

“Hang on a minute,” Zayn says as soon as he spots Niall walking down the pavement. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets and he’s walking briskly in the direction of Harry’s house. “Niall knows something, let me out.”

Louis slows to a stop and Zayn gently climbs out of the back seat, ensuring Harry’s got enough room to lay flat on the seats before he closes the door behind him.

Niall goes wide-eyed when he sees Zayn get out of the car, stops in his tracks like he’s going to jet.

“What do you know?” Zayn asks. Niall’s eyes flick to the car and back to Zayn,

“Nothing,” Niall mumbles.

“Nothing about Harry’s feet?”

Niall turns pale, paler than he already is, that is, knows Zayn’s caught him in a lie. Zayn nods off toward the car and Niall follows him tentatively around to the other side.

“Is he…” Niall starts.

Harry carefully unwraps the duvet to reveal the tail. Another layer of scales seems to have settled since they left Harry’s, no trace of his legs are left.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “Can you feel your legs?”

Harry shakes his head.

“D’you know what this is?” Zayn asks.

“I think so.”

“Get in.”

It’s dreadfully silent as they buckle in and Louis pulls back onto the street. Harry’s got his bundled fin in Niall’s lap, Niall’s hands resting over it carelessly, like maybe it were his feet and they were lounging around watching the movie. Niall would look a bit casual about it if he didn’t also look like he were going to shit a brick.

Zayn knows the feeling.

“It’s a legend over in Ireland – ”

“Bloody Irish legend for everything, innit,” Louis mutters.

“Shut the fuck up,” Zayn says, making a face at him visible through the rear view.

“ -- folk from the sea who come to land between the summer and winter solstice,” Niall continues. “When it’s time to grow their school, they’ll come to land and choose a guy or a girl, charm them with their voices.”

“Like a siren song,” Zayn says, low. Harry frowns up at him, shakes his head like he doesn’t like that. It makes sense, though, that undeniable lure Harry has, the one that’s got them fawning over him. Zayn still thinks it’s deserved.

Niall nods. “And then, they’ll, y’know.” He waves a hand, they fill in the blanks.

Well, Louis literally fills in the blank, “They have unprotected sex.”

“Right. Most of the humans don’t even know they come from the sea, and the kids they leave behind, they all turn eventually, when they reach maturity. The kids, they get pulled back to the sea.”

“Are you saying a fish fucked Harry’s mum?” Louis says.

Zayn reaches all the way up to the front seat just to slap him upside the head. Louis squawks indignantly but doesn’t argue, so even he knows he deserved that.

“That seems really inappropriate,” Liam says. “Why don’t they just -- have sex with each other?”

“I dunno, Liam, I’ve never met one,” Niall says pointedly. “Thought it was a legend.”

Harry’s hand squeezes Zayn’s thigh so Zayn puts his hand over Harry’s, like he’s grounding him, like they’re tethered. He knows what comes next in this story and he’s hesitant to let go.

\--

Harry gasps, a sickening, wheezing noise, all too familiar to Zayn.

“I’ve got your inhaler,” Zayn says, pressing it into his hands. He’d seen it on Harry’s bed and pocketed it just in case. He hadn’t actually imagined the bad asthma day might have been at all related to this.

Harry pushes it back, shaking his head. “Doesn’t help.”

“He needs the water,” Niall says.

Harry nods, fervent, desperate, clawing at Zayn’s shirt like he’s trying to make him understand. “Water.”

Niall looks sorry. “It’s not the summer solstice yet, so it’s the sea’s turn for him.”

 

Zayn blinks at him. He’s been too wrapped up in his own head, sorting out how he feels about this whole thing, that he’s completely disregarded how Harry’s handling it. Harry doesn’t look too hot, really, he looks quite overwhelmed, like the walls are all caving in and maybe he’s starting to realize what this all means.

“Pull over.”

“We’re almost there,” Louis moans.

“Pull over and get out,” Zayn repeats, his voice hard enough that there’s no hesitation this time. They file out of the car and Zayn cracks open the case of water bottles he had Louis pick up on his way over to Harry’s.

Harry sucks down the entire contents of two water bottles before he calms down, works on his third until he finally says something.

“Knew my dad wasn’t my dad.”

Zayn frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Found their certificate of divorce a few years ago. Thought maybe they’d had a one night stand or something, like a drunk goodbye shag and decided to stick together for a while for me, but. Mum was always a bit wistful about this one bloke. She’d talk about him when she got a little wine drunk. Said she’d have married him if she could, he’d asked her to. Never said why she couldn’t.”

His eyes start to water and Zayn strokes his hair. He’s heartbroken for him.

“Guess it’s ‘cause he lives in the ocean,” Harry says with a watery laugh. “Christ, what am I going to tell my mum?”

“The truth,” Zayn says, running the fingers of his free hand lightly down Harry’s arm.

The scales on his arm have hardened as much as the ones on his legs, wrapping up past his wrist until they fade away at his knuckles. There’s a delicate webbing between each of his fingers now too, which prevents Zayn from lacing their fingers together.

“What do I do, Zayn, how do I explain this to anyone?”

“Ideally you don’t, I mean, the government would probably kidnap you for experiments or something.”

Harry stares at him, somehow dumbfounded, which is honestly a far sight better than him being weepy, if you ask Zayn. “You’re shit at cheering people up.”

“You wanted to be free, didn’t you?” Zayn says honestly, even though he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like what it means. He doesn’t like the idea of giving Harry up. “I think this might be the answer.”

Harry leans up and kisses him before Zayn has a second to even process. The confident press of Harry’s lips against his is enough to shatter his focus on anything else but what Harry feels like, what he’d taste like if he just parted his lips enough to let Zayn in.

Harry also pulls away first, penitent like he can’t see how thoroughly Zayn wants him, has wanted him. “Sorry, sorry, I just. I wanted to know what it was like, in case -- ”

Zayn cuts him off with another kiss, whispers into his lips, “You charming bastard. You’ve got one hell of a siren song.”

“I’d only sing it for you,” Harry promises. “And not to impregnate you. Because I like you, a lot. Like from a regular person perspective, not like a horny sea monster sort of -- ”

“I get it, Harry.”

They kiss until Harry’s breathless with it, like properly breathless, gasping for air – or for water – and Zayn feels like an idiot, wasting time like this, but he agreed with Harry. It feels so much like just in case.

When Zayn beckons the rest of them back into the car, Louis breaks several laws getting them down the marina. Harry looks worse for wear the longer it takes, and Zayn holds him, feeds him bottle after bottle of water, but none of it seems enough.

\--

Harry starts howling when they’re halfway down the dock, his hand leaving Zayn’s neck to clutch at his own. He’s been crying steadily for the last five minutes, partly from the pain, but Zayn heard Harry whisper, _m_ ’ _scared_ , when they’d parked at the other end of the dock and prepared to bring him out.

“Put him down, put him down,” Zayn chants until they do it, each of them crouching to rest him gently on the wooden dock.

Harry’s body arches wildly, unwrapping the duvet on its own, and Harry’s gasping like he’s out of air. Zayn sees them, the fluttering slits his neck -- gills he figures, making him desperate for the water.

“Go on, Harry,” Zayn says, prodding Harry until he slides himself over to the edge of the dock.

Harry looks at Zayn, makes a weak sound in his throat, one that doesn’t sound human, but somehow conveys the message well enough. Harry doesn’t want to go, or at least that’s what he thinks, but there’s already something like promise in his eyes now that he’s gotten here. He tips over, head first, diving into the water as gracefully as he does in any of his competitions.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

The adrenaline of the day starts to wear off. Whatever shock at the situation had gotten them through to this point starts to dissipate and the truly absurd nature of what they’ve been through settles around them.

Harry’s gone. He didn’t even get to kiss him again. Say goodbye. Have some sort of closure. Figure out what the hell he was going to tell Harry’s mum or the school or his coaches or the English Olympic team or any of that shit.

Zayn looks back at his friends when he can’t look at the water anymore, having gone still.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, shifting from one foot to the other.

Niall’s chewing on a nail so hard Zayn’s certain he’s going to eat half his finger before long.

Liam’s crying.

He’s torn between calling it a day and staying here for the rest of his life until Harry resurfaces. So that’s when Harry resurfaces, a small splash accompanying him. His eyes are wide, casting around until they meet Zayn’s. He reaches for Zayn and Zayn goes tumbling to his knees, risking splinters in the old wood just to get closer to him. Harry’s hand is ice cold clutching his, but Zayn doesn’t care.

He lets loose a sound and looks frustrated that it’s not words. He grips Zayn’s hand firmer, and Zayn thinks he gets it anyway. He feels the boys at his back, crowding around him to get a look.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks.

Harry nods, arching his body so his tail splashes up behind him. He seems pretty pleased with himself, at ease already, even if all this has just happened in a span of a few hours. He looks comfortable in the water, at home.

“That’s fucking cool,” Niall says.

They watch him for a while, Harry showing off all the weird things he can do, making them laugh until their sides hurt, and he’s still every inch the charismatic siren he was on land. The sun sets, and the marina lights aren’t gonna come on because it’s the winter and the marina’s supposed to be closed.

Harry looks panicked when he realizes they’ll have to go. Zayn’s stomach sinks too, but he knows they’ll make this work. He knows this is what Harry needs and he won’t take it from him. And Harry’s what Zayn needs and he’ll come back for him.

“I’m coming back for you. I’m gonna meet you right here, every day, you better show up, okay?”

Harry tugs at his hand.

“I can’t go with you,” Zayn says, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t break. He blinks furiously so the tears at his eyes aren’t obstructing his view of Harry as he sinks back into the water. “Shit, Harry. I can’t go with you.”

Harry waves and then he’s gone, quickly, like pulling off a plaster, so neither of them linger on goodbye. Zayn can see the flap of his tail break the water a few times before he plunges too deep to be seen at all.

He turns and folds himself into the first body he finds, pressing his nose into Louis’ neck and breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke hanging onto his jacket. He curls his hands around Louis’ waist when Louis curls his around Zayn’s, and he wishes, just for a moment, it was Harry instead.

\--

“The irony isn’t lost on me, you know,” Zayn says, his feet kicking lightly over the surface of the water.

Harry looks up to him, tilts his head so Zayn knows to elaborate.

“I can’t swim, you can’t walk.”

Harry drops down a little until only his eyes are visible, then resurfaces, the gills at his neck fluttering in what Zayn always thought was satisfaction. He reaches a hand out and gently grips Zayn’s ankle.

“You pull me in and I’m breaking up with you.”

Harry puts a hand to his heart, scandalized. He flashes a grin in the next second, walking his fingers up Zayn’s leg until he’s properly tickled and yells uncle.

“I was thinking about getting a boat, me and the lads, we might pool our money for one. What do you think?”

Harry flips backwards, diving into the water and bursting back through, waving his hands triumphantly like a madman.

“So that’s a yes.”

He wants to be closer to Harry, but he doesn’t want Harry confined to this dock. There’s a reason he’s meant for the sea, the wide expanse of it, and the last thing Zayn wants is to tether him to just one bit of it.

There are so many stories Zayn’s missing, a whole other part to Harry’s life that he can’t tell, both because Zayn’s not sure he could ever comprehend it, but also because Harry literally can’t, not until he gets his voice at the solstice.

He knows Harry’s happy.

Zayn had lost Harry to the water, had never been so scared in his life. But Harry didn’t leave him. Harry found the home he was looking for, and Zayn still has him for as long as he can keep him.

Zayn shifts, swinging his legs up onto the deck so he can lie flat and Harry can rise up to him.

“Couple more weeks until the solstice, yeah? You’ll be back on land before you know it and we’ll still come down here every day so you can swim. Would you teach me?”

Harry grins bright, like Zayn’s never said anything better in the world. Zayn runs a hand through Harry’s hair. It’s getting so long, Harry’s mum’s going to flip when she sees it. Zayn loves it. Loves everything about him, really, has for a while.

“You’re mum’s coming round tomorrow, around three if you can swing it.”

Harry nods, grinning excitedly.

“I’ve got to work.” Zayn holds up a finger to stop Harry’s pouting before it begins. “If I can’t work, I can’t get a boat.”

Harry sighs a watery sigh, making a big deal of his put upon act, sinking back down into the water in protest.

There’s always a small moment of panic Zayn has just before he leaves. One that has him on his knees, wanting to whisper into his lips _don’t forget about me_. Every time Harry goes back out to sea, Zayn worries that he won’t find his way back, that he’ll forget where the dock is or he just won’t care to remember.

But every time, Harry pulls himself up out of the water, hooks one arm over the top run of the ladder that descends down into the water as the other reaches for Zayn to pull him in for a salty kiss.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you need me, I'm [here.](http://wickershire.tumblr.com)


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